You Still Can’t Beat A Book

By Tom Anselm

I am about to embark on an epic journey. The peculiar thing is that the parameters of this trip won’t extend beyond the reach of my arms. Today I will begin an 858-page novel by the name of Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurty. It may likely take me weeks, even months, to get to the end of this classic Western saga of love, cattle drives and friendships.

It’s all because about ten years ago, I stayed up late nights watching the movie starring Robert Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones, among others, and have never really forgotten the impact it made on my soul. So, as I saw the book on the shelf at the local library, I muscled up and grabbed it, and hoped I was up to the task.

There is a problem here that must be stated up front. It is published in regular type size. I was hoping to find it in the Large Print version, which is what has become the go-to for The Lovely Jill and me. Not that we’re old or any… okay, we’re old, and the BIG LETTERS sure do help. I guess we could go to those page magnifiers, but that’s just for reeeeally old people. At any rate, I will soldier on with the print that brung me. (Do those magnifier thingies really work? Hmmmm.)

I don’t like reading stuff on my phone, even the computer. Jill has a Nook, which she uses occasionally. However, we have come to value the public library as a community treasure. Log in at home, check the authors and titles, reserve what you want, click and, sure as shootin’, your book is held, and free of charge to boot.

A good thing is that if the book turns out to be a stinker, you’re not out $29.99 or whatever Barnes and Noble charges. That’s why I usually get two or three different novels per visit, which have become quite numerous since retirement. Sometimes I feel like Norm from “Cheers” I’m in there so much. Although no librarian has yet to yell out “Tom!” as I push through the door.

Back to books in particular. It’s all about the tangible feel, the smell of the paper, the idea of having a tome to prop up on a pillow or spread on the table while eating my high-fiber oatmeal with assorted fruit and plain Greek yogurt and an occasional sprinkling of cinnamon… ahhh.

The Good Life does come easy sometimes. Reading a compelling book can take you away from the everyday of mayhem and craziness, for a time at least. I particularly like novels that have some historical references, either real or close to it, that make me think I am actually learning something.

Not so crazy about murder mysteries, especially since a lot of times, I’m reading right before sleepy-time. No sense making my dreams any more bizarre than they already can get without additional prompting. Not crazy about love stories, and I can’t usually get into a tale where the main protagonist is a female. Although some authors are so adept at spreading the story around amongst the various characters that it just doesn’t matter.

And first person narratives seem to be more my style. At least to the extent that I can put myself in the shoes of the story-teller. Thus my avoidance of heroine-driven exploits. Besides, their shoes would probably hurt too much.

So as I start my 5-pound curls with the tree-killer that contains the ramblings of former Texas Rangers Augustus McCrae and Captain Woodrow Call and the boys from the Hat Creek Outfit on their trek north to wide-sky Montana, I will indeed soldier on with the print that brung me. Unless, of course, I break down and get me one of them there page enhancers. I am looking at 858 pages, after all. Git along, little doggies. Yee, Haw!

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